


a quiet too loud

by troubadore



Category: The Witcher (TV)
Genre: Feelings Realization, Fix-It, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Post-Episode: S01E06 Rare Species
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-02
Updated: 2020-05-02
Packaged: 2021-03-01 20:28:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,918
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23973013
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/troubadore/pseuds/troubadore
Summary: Jaskier sits under a tree by himself, separate from the group but not entirely out of sight. Geralt's chest suddenly feels tight, like some great weight is settled on him and making it hard to breathe. There's an ache where his heart is and he recognizes, belatedly, that it'sguilt—guilt for what he'd shouted earlier, for pushing the bard away with his anger and harsh words.He stands, uncertain, fighting with himself for a moment, then he closes his eyes and breathes in deeply, letting it out slowly, and makes his way over to Jaskier.orGeralt apologizes
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 52
Kudos: 860





	a quiet too loud

**Author's Note:**

> i know everyone and their grandma has done an ep 6 fix-it fic but consider this: here's another
> 
> anyway i hadn't personally done a fix-it yet so i had to get it out of my system! also can you believe i went into this with the specific intention of having them smooch and then 3 thousand words later they _didn't_ like !!! rude

Geralt catches up with the rest of the failed dragon hunting party when the sun is just beginning to set on the horizon. 

The dwarves have set up camp in a thicket of trees. Smart enough not to travel through the night, though he figures there isn't much that would come after them with a dragon guarding them all now. Borch's words ring in his mind— _your destiny is out there—_ and his jaw clenches. 

He intends to pass through, to keep moving and not impose where he isn't wanted, if not unwelcome, but he stops as the breeze shifts and he catches the scent of oranges and honey on the wind, and the soft plucking of lute strings to go with it. 

Jaskier sits under a tree by himself, separate from the group but not entirely out of sight. Geralt's chest suddenly feels tight, like some great weight is settled on him and making it hard to breathe. There's an ache where his heart is and he recognizes, belatedly, that it's _guilt—_ guilt for what he'd shouted earlier, for pushing the bard away with his anger and harsh words. 

He stands, uncertain, fighting with himself for a moment, then he closes his eyes and breathes in deeply, letting it out slowly, and makes his way over to Jaskier. 

There's an underlying bitterness to his usual sweet scent, a tang of heartache that twists it into something unpleasant, and Geralt hates knowing he's the cause of it. The melancholy notes being strummed come to a slow, lingering still when Jaskier notices him, like he's been expecting Geralt—waiting for him, Geralt realizes. The weight lifts, just slightly. _Jaskier didn't leave him._

"Witcher," Jaskier says, not unkindly, but Geralt winces internally nonetheless. He deserves that. 

"Jaskier," he says, then stops. He knows he can't let things stand as they are, but he's not sure what to say to fix it. _I'm sorry,_ probably, but his tongue won't work, the words stuck in his throat as they always are. It doesn't feel like enough. 

Jaskier waits, but when it's obvious Geralt has no more to say, he sighs, deep and tired. He sets the lute aside, but doesn't face Geralt, watching as the sun dips low. His blue eyes are lit with the last dying rays of the evening, almost glowing. 

He's always been patient with Geralt, though, more than Geralt deserves—always making allowances for him where others give ultimatums, and it's that more than anything that Geralt appreciates, more than either of them knows, he thinks. 

Jaskier deserves reciprocation now, deserves some effort from the other end, and Geralt wants to give him that. 

Slowly, cautiously, like he might spook the bard, Geralt sits down beside him, keeping a careful distance between them. He's heartened when Jaskier simply shifts his body toward Geralt, even if he won't look at him. He won't be the one to start this—it's up to Geralt because he's the one who fucked up, and Geralt watches the sunset with Jaskier as he searches for the words to make this right. 

"I didn't mean it," he finally says, low and rough. It's not quite what he wants, but it's something. "What I said—I didn't mean it." 

Jaskier hums softly, still not looking at him. Geralt searches for more words. 

"You're not a burden. Never have been. Not really." _Annoying. A pain in my ass. Too loud and too bright and always there to pull me out of the darkness of my own making. A blessing._ His brow furrows, and he clasps his hands together as he leans on his knees. "I shouldn't have said that." 

"No," Jaskier agrees, speaking finally, "you shouldn't have." 

"You didn't deserve that." 

"No, I didn't." 

"I'm sorry," Geralt says, and means it more than he ever has before, if he's ever said it. 

"I know," Jaskier replies, and finally, _finally,_ he looks at Geralt. The smile he offers is small, fragile, nothing like his usual broad grins that hide everything behind a veneer of pseudo-cheer—but it's genuine. The bitterness is fading, gradually, from his scent, though Geralt thinks it'll linger, faintly, for a while yet. "I forgive you." 

The weight on his chest leaves almost completely, and Geralt breathes easier, not quite so suffocated. It's not completely gone—won't be for a while, he thinks—but it's better. 

They're not where they were, and they can't go back, but they'll be okay. They always are. 

Geralt _wants_ them to be okay, he realizes. Just the idea of Jaskier leaving, of taking his songs and his cheer and his unconditional support and ripping them from Geralt's reach, no longer freely given, no longer allowing him to have it, brings the ache in his chest back tenfold. Too many times in his long existence has any kind of compassion been offered only on the basis that Geralt will do something to earn it—hunt a creature, save a town—and then been swept away when he's fulfilled his end, the people running him out and their cries of _Beast! Monster! Butcher!_ the only things to follow. 

But Jaskier—Jaskier saw him as he was, so long ago, sees him as he is still even now, and still he's here, still offering kindness when all Geralt has done is throw it back in his face. 

He doesn't sleep that night, staring instead off at the star-covered horizon, deep in thought. Jaskier is asleep against him, his warm breaths puffing against the skin of Geralt's neck where he's buried his face. He'd slumped into Geralt not long after unconsciousness took him, and Geralt hadn't had the heart to push him away, instead pulling him closer and making him comfortable. 

It's easy and familiar and Geralt wants to keep this, wants this to become a permanent thing between them: Jaskier against him, in his arms, safe and protected. 

He doesn't understand it, doesn't have the words to explain exactly what it means to feel the bard relaxed and content because of him, but he knows he doesn't want to lose it. 

Jaskier shifts, nose dragging against Geralt's throat, over the sensitive spot that the braver whores would discover and bite at, and Geralt closes his eyes as sparks skitter along his skin, heat settling low in him. _Oh,_ but he knows that—the low, simmering hunger, the desire, the _lust—_ and his mind conjures, unbidden, the image of his bard doing it on purpose, those soft lips sucking marks into his skin even though they'll fade too quick, of those deft musician's hands wandering over his scarred body with loving, gentle, reverent touches. 

He _wants_ that, he realizes, wants Jaskier's hands on him, wants his lips against his own. Wants _more_ —wants to keep him by his side, safe and content and _happy_. 

_I want to show you what you're missing._

Fuck. 

  
  


They make it down the mountain the same way they made it up, whole and mostly unscathed. Geralt hates, however, that Jaskier is noticeably more reserved as they walk, still strumming on his lute every now and again, but none of his usual cheer is there, and he doesn't sing, doesn't even hum. A lance of pain goes through Geralt's chest because that's _his fault_ and he doesn't know how—or if—he can make it better, can fix what he fucked up. 

He hadn't realized just how much he's come to rely on Jaskier's unwavering spirit in the face of Geralt's hard demeanor, going through life undaunted by Geralt's gruff rebukes that more and more often held no bite, facing it all head on with a smile and witty quip and lively ditty. 

The inn in the town is just as busy as it had been those few days prior, but there's a room for them when Geralt hands over the coin for it. Jaskier excuses himself to it while Geralt orders food and drink for them, and the innkeep eyes him knowingly when Geralt clenches his fist on the bar. 

"Trouble in paradise?" 

Geralt doesn't want to acknowledge him, his reticent nature rearing up, but he thinks things like that are exactly what got him into this situation in the first place. "Something like that," he grits out, and glares when the innkeep snorts. 

"Have you tried apologizing?" the innkeep asks, like he doesn't believe it's a possibility, and Geralt bares his teeth, ashamed of the fact that, a few days ago, it wouldn't have been. 

"Yes, actually," he manages, and hates the surprise that colors the man's gaze. 

"Well then," the innkeep says, leaning on the bar like he's sharing a secret, "have you tried kissing him senseless and showering him with love?" 

It's said in the most mocking manner Geralt has ever heard—clearly the man doesn't believe him capable of it—but it makes him pause anyway, makes him _think_ about what it might be like to do it. To follow Jaskier up to the room and claim his lips for his own, to hold him like he never wants to let go ever again and whisper promises of _forever_ into his skin. 

_Kiss him senseless and shower him with love._ It makes him _ache_ and— 

Oh. 

Well, shit. 

Geralt never answers, in part because the innkeep moves away, obviously having been rhetorical in his asking, but mostly because the answer is _no_ and the fact that Jaskier is up in their room instead of down in the bar playing for the people speaks for itself. Instead, he takes the food and drink when the innkeep brings it over and heads upstairs. 

Jaskier is on the one bed when Geralt enters the room, closing the door behind him with a gentle nudge. His lute is beside the bed, their things in one corner. His jacket is off and he's rolled his sleeves up, his chemise hanging open to reveal the column of his throat and the dark hair that covers his chest. 

He looks up from the notebook in his lap. Geralt holds up the food and brings it over when Jaskier sets his notebook aside and moves over on the bed to make space for him. He takes the offered wine with a quiet _thanks_ and then it's silent again as they eat. 

Geralt is starting to hate the silence. He wishes he knew how to break it, how to make it so that Jaskier would sing again, would _talk_ and fill it with his songs and stories and his voice. 

It frustrates him how he _misses_ Jaskier even with Jaskier sitting right beside him, sharing food from the same plate, his warmth mere inches away. How do you miss something that's _right there?_

With a huff, Geralt sets his tankard down on the floor, ale sloshing over the side, and turns to Jaskier, almost crawling over him. For his part, Jaskier merely blinks at him, leaning back into the wall behind the bed, eyes wide. 

"Geralt, what—" 

"How do I fix it," Geralt asks, pleads, demands, hands coming to either side of Jaskier's shoulders and almost pinning him down. "I know I broke it, but I can't—I don't want it to be this way. How do I fix it." 

Jaskier watches him with unreadable blue eyes. "How do you fix what, Geralt?" 

" _This,_ " Geralt growls. " _Us._ You're not—you're not talking anymore. You're always talking, and now you're not. How do I fix it." 

_How do I tell you I want you back just the way you were, the way you are._

Unbidden, Geralt's eyes drop to watch Jaskier's throat as he swallows, and he smells oranges and honey and the unmistakable musk that is _Jaskier_ concentrated at the base of his neck. He's caught on those pink lips that sing the sweetest melodies and say his name with the softest fondness he's ever heard, and he wants to know if they feel as soft as they look, if they taste of oranges and honey and wine and _love._

He's pulled from his musing when Jaskier's hand presses against his chest, not pushing him back, simply resting there. He looks back at Jaskier's bright eyes full of sadness and pain. He _hates_ it. 

"I didn't think you wanted me to talk," Jaskier says, quiet. "You're always telling me to shut up." 

Geralt growls again, frustrated and angry at himself. There's a weight in his chest again, and it feels like he's being crushed under it. "I—Fuck. I don't mean it, Jaskier. I never mean it. I thought—I thought you knew that." 

Jaskier gives him a weak smile that doesn't reach his pretty blue eyes. "I'm not sure what I know anymore, Geralt. Your words say one thing, your actions another. I thought I knew what was true, but—" 

"You're the only one who knows me," Geralt says, the words stacked up on his tongue, and he doesn't know if they make any sense, but he thinks it's time to let them out. "The only one who ever bothered. People don't want to know a witcher. But you—you did. And I could be myself with you. Could show you the rough edges no one else wanted to see. And you would stay. You always stay." 

Geralt sits back a little, then, and on impulse runs a hand over Jaskier's chest, up to his jaw, cupping it with as much tenderness as he can manage. "You always stay," he repeats softer, listening to the way Jaskier's breath catches, "even when I don't deserve it. And I thought that meant you always would, no matter what I said. No matter how mean or unfair it was. Because you know I don't mean it." 

"Just because you don't mean it," Jaskier says, and a little bit of his usual playful admonishment creeps into his tone, though he's anything but playful now, "doesn't mean it doesn't hurt. Sometimes your words do speak louder than your actions." 

"I'm sorry," Geralt says, because he doesn't know what else to say. "I'm sorry. I don't want you to leave. I don't—I don't want to be without you." 

"Why?" Jaskier asks, and Geralt is seized with a strange sort of feeling, something that, in another time, he might call _fear._ But witchers aren't meant to feel fear. 

"I—" _I need you. I want you. I love you._ But his words are stuck again. Geralt shakes his head, scowling in frustration. "I don't—I don't know, I just. I just know I _do._ I can't—" 

A hand on his cheek settles him, and Geralt leans into Jaskier's touch on instinct, eyes closing. He noses at Jaskier's wrist, inhaling the oranges and honey scent where his pulse is strongest. He _wants_ this. Wants _Jaskier._

"I'm sorry," he says instead. 

"For what?" Jaskier asks. 

_Nothing. Everything. For every time I've hurt you thinking it didn't matter what I said because I thought you knew otherwise._

"That I can't find the right words to fix this," he says. 

"Oh, Geralt," Jaskier sighs, and Geralt finds himself gathered to Jaskier's chest, held close in his arms. _Hugged._ He relaxes against his bard, tucking his face into his neck, his own grip tight around Jaskier's waist. 

"I think time is all that can fix this," Jaskier says after a long moment. "I—You hurt me, Geralt, more than I think you realize." 

It makes him flinch, and Geralt goes to pull away, but Jaskier tightens his hold, keeps him close. 

"No, listen. You hurt me, but it _will_ heal. It'll just take time." His hand comes up and brushes a few wayward strands of Geralt's hair behind his ear, calloused fingers trailing a line of fire along his cheek with how tender, how _gentle_ he is. Always so gentle. 

"I bared my soul to you," he continues, "put my heart into your hands, and you threw it back in my face. Of course that's going to take time to heal." 

It makes Geralt want to _cry,_ and he hates himself, _abhors_ himself for ever making Jaskier feel like that, feel like Geralt wouldn't treasure his heart and his love. Except that's exactly what he did, because he's an _idiot_ who would rather push away the only good thing in his life, too scared to embrace it. 

"Will I—" Geralt pauses, searches for the words he wants to say. "Would you be willing to share it again? After—time." 

_I'd like the chance to hold it again. And this time I'll cherish it like it should be._

Jaskier is quiet, then he hums, and he tilts his head to press it against Geralt's. "I suppose that's entirely up to you." 

Geralt hears what he doesn't say, knows it means that he'll have to be better, to use his words along with his actions, will have to do it _different_ because they can't go back to how things were. 

One day, maybe, Geralt will get to hold Jaskier's heart again, and have Jaskier hold his. They'll travel to the coast, like Jaskier once suggested, and just _breathe,_ away from the war and fighting and hunting and responsibilities destiny forces on them. Jaskier will smile at Geralt, soft and fond, and Geralt will know what he tastes like—oranges and honey and sweet wine and _love_ and _home._

For now, Geralt promises himself he'll become someone worthy of holding Jaskier's heart. 

  
  


_If life could give me one blessing, it would be to have you stay._

**Author's Note:**

> [twitter](http://twitter.com/troubadorer) / [tumblr](http://geraltofriviasleftbuttcheek.tumblr.com)


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